


a poem for small things

by dustyspines



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Cursed Child - Thorne & Rowling
Genre: Fluff, Love Languages, M/M, Swearing (occasionally), Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 10:01:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29434263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustyspines/pseuds/dustyspines
Summary: The evening feels like it’s descending into one of those moments that James, later in life, will recall as a catalyst for him falling deeper in love with Scorpius, more in love than he ever thought possible. One of those moments where he realises this love is eternal, so much bigger than he ever thought possible, so big he feels like he could drown in it some days.Or, the one in which James tries to find out what Scorpius' love language is by loving him in as many different ways as possible.
Relationships: Scorpius Malfoy/James Sirius Potter
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16
Collections: Love Languages Mini Fest





	a poem for small things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [albypotter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/albypotter/gifts).



> thanks to thealmostrhetoricalquestion for organising this fest! writing this piece was so much fun~
> 
> for clarity, the love languages are separated by a lyric I thought particularly summed up each type. but, just in case I’ve been a bit obscure with my choices, they go in this order (starting with the first aligned right, italicised sentence): acts of service, quality time, words of affirmation, receiving gifts & physical touch. 
> 
> also, this is gifted to @albypotter, the person who first got me thinking about this pairing; it only makes sense to dedicate it to you <3

He’s like well-worn leather, a much-loved tea-spoon, a lifelong owned wand always reliably tucked in your back pocket. Used and burnished down and showing age and experience in the way he tumbles around the world with a legacy above his head and a reputation as bright at the sun that precedes every single step he takes; but, despite it all, he still resembles _Scorpius_. Scorpius Hyperion.

He still carries with him the poise you expect from someone raised in the environment he was, he still stands with his arms behind his back when speaking to someone who has a higher title, supposedly, and still presses his hand over his heart when accepting a compliment from someone. James has watched him for years with interest, seeing the way he seems to shed personas like snakeskin to fit in to whichever social situation he finds himself existing in. He sat on the outskirts when Scorpius would come over for Christmas, when he stayed for a few days at the Burrow, and was endlessly fascinated by the multitude of camouflages this enigmatic boy seemed to have. James would watch him with such curiosity, such _awe_ , completely enamoured with every little part of him.

James used to watch Scorpius from a distance, and now everything is different.

Now he watches him from the opposite side of the dining table, napkin tucked in the neckline of his jumper as he animatedly talks about something interesting that happened at work. Watches him under the low glow of the bewitched fairy lights in James’ bedroom, the little snitch-shaped bulbs casting a butterscotch hue on Scorpius’ skin as he reads late into the night. Watches him cautiously lace his boots, watches him fall asleep so quickly, watches Scorpius watch James back, too.

“I don’t think I’ll be good at this stuff,” James had said back when this all started, back on that dreary November evening after Lily’s birthday party had dissipated into the waning night time blues and the two of them lingered in the garden, swinging on the bench by the tiny little pond. “I don’t want you to waste your time on me if it’s all for nothing.”

Scorpius had frowned at him. “Isn’t it a bit presumptuous to assume the worst before anything has even begun?” He asked.

James shrugged. “I’m not sure,” he admitted, a little haze of rain beginning to patter over the ground. “I’m cynical, I guess.”

Scorpius stopped swinging, stepped onto a twig as he rose and came to hover in front of James. “Don’t be,” he said. “It’s just me.”

“Just you?” James repeated.

“Yeah,” Scorpius said. “And you know me.”

James had hummed. Stood up, grinned at how – after all these years – he still stood a few centimetres taller than Scorpius. “I do.”

“I’m sure you’re better at _this_ stuff than you think.” Scorpius smiled.

“Guess we’ll have to find out.”

Scorpius’ head tilted ever so slightly. Rain on his skin, a sparkle in his eyes. “Guess we will.”

That was then. And this is now.

James doesn’t know if he is any good at love, or any better than he used to be, but he knows he’s trying his hardest. And that’s all that matters.

⚡

They are lounging on the sofa, James doing a crossword in the _Prophet_ , Scorpius reading the newest biography on Newt Scamander that had been released a few days before, when, out of nowhere, James asks, “What’s your love language?”

Scorpius looks over the top of his book. He sets his sights on James, tangled up with him, their limbs knotted in all sorts of ways and his head resting definitively on Scorpius’ thigh. It’s storming outside, some irritating little itch that the weather system can’t quite seem to scratch. The rain has been falling for days, drowning the peonies Scorpius had lovingly planted a few weeks before, causing a little leak in the kitchen just to the left of the dining table.

“My what?” Scorpius asks.

James shuffles about a little. He sets the newspaper down and balances the pencil behind his ear. He turns so he is lying on his front, his chin now resting on Scorpius’ thigh and his free hand drawing little circles around his knee cap. “You know,” James says, kissing the material of Scorpius’ trousers. “Your love language. How you like to give and receive love. Everyone has a different preference.”

Scorpius hums, the susurration of his trousers against the faux leather of the sofa a pleasant contrast to the ominous rumbling out the window. “I’ve never thought too much about it,” he admits. His fingers find their way into James’ hair, twisting around the individual curls; particularly potent curls this evening, as they always are after he’s washed his hair. “You mean like words of affirmation, gifts, all that?”

James nods. “I do.”

“Yeah, I’ve never thought too much about it,” Scorpius repeats. He sets his bookmark back in place – a stub from his ticket to James’ first Quidditch match as a professional player – and lays every ounce of his attention onto James. “I’m content enough being loved by you in all the ways you do it that I’ve never laboured over love languages too much.”

James scoffs, teasingly rolls his eyes. “Spoken like a true Malfoy.”

Scorpius flicks James’ nose. He laughs at him, _smiles_ at him, leans down to kiss him for what feels like the first time in forever. “Such a loser,” he says, but he’s laughing, too. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Ooh, dramatic. Storming out into the rain, middle of the night, no coat. Very Regency-era and really-bad-romance-book.”

And that makes Scorpius smile in a different way, a way which sees the corner of his mouth quiver like a once still lake being disturbed by a skipping rock over its surface. A delicate, half-there sort of smile. And James feels nothing but love; feels nothing but this unequivocal thrum of _love_ for this kid right in the bottom of his stomach. Building like a sweltering sunny day that is seconds from bursting into a devastating storm.

It rains outside, loud, heavy drops all over the window pane. But Scorpius keeps smiling at him, and James keeps falling in love, and – just like that – the room is stunned to silence, and the only thing that matters is the two of them, side by side, orbiting each other as if they’ve never known anything else.

⚡

_‘I'd do anything for you, your wish is my command, I could move a mountain when your hand is in my hand.’_

It was like falling in love with a place you have never been to. Drawn in by sheer fascination towards the secrets of the streets, the stories behind the late night bright lights and the corner shops always stocking the niche brand of sparkling water you can never find anywhere else. Endeared by the vibrations of the traffic, the stop start thrum of the citizens who slump along like ants to one destined point then scatter like a flock of seagulls when disturbed by a pending wave.

That had been how James described it to Albus, anyway.

“I know why _I_ love him,” Albus had said one night, the two of them sitting up late at their childhood house doing a jigsaw puzzle. “Because he’s my best friend, and that’s what you’re supposed to do. But… _you_?”

“I love him because I _do_ ,” James explained, pressing a piece into place. “Like falling in love with somewhere you’ve never been. You love all these things you’ve only seen in pictures, or things you can only imagine – and then you get to see it all in real life, and it’s even better than your wildest dreams. It’s like that.”

Albus hummed. “Makes sense,” he said. “You also sounded _just_ like him them.”

Then they laughed, and Albus smiled at him, and James suddenly felt less like the villain of the narrative. The villain who took away his brother’s best friend, to a certain extent. Not that Albus had ever implied that, of course, because Albus would never do that. But things had been different for a while, why wouldn’t they? That cleared the air, though. The receding tide after a seaside storm that threatened to tear a town to pieces.

But, anyway.

Falling in love with Scorpius had been like _that_. Confusing but enthralling but exciting but terrifying all in one go. Slowly peeling back the cover inch by inch until James felt like he knew him in a way that nobody else did. Getting to the bottom of his little idiosyncrasies, why the sleeves of his jumpers were always a little rough (he picks at the stitches when he’s nervous), why the centre of his bottom lip is always cherry red (he thoughtfully, absentmindedly bites it when reading); seeing everything as it was, face value, and then understanding _how_ it came to be.

It’s only then, when James finds himself distracted by whether Scorpius has run out of lip balm, he realises he’s been in the shower for over thirty minutes. His skin is pink, his fingertips wrinkled and scaly, almost.

He has work – or, well, training – in half an hour. He hasn’t eaten breakfast. He doesn’t even _know_ where his uniform is.

James rushes to get ready, grabs desperately for his towel and, in the process, knocks over the rows of toiletry dominoes lined neatly at the side of the shower. He curses himself, mentally slapping his figurative wrist for being so clumsy as he picks up the bottles and tries to sort them back into how they had been before.

His shampoo, his conditioner, his mint-scented shower gel Scorpius likes a lot. Then Scorpius’ shampoo, Scorpius’ conditioner, and – oh. Scorpius’ _almost_ empty shower gel.

James manages to get himself together before he leaves, even remembering to grab a pen and write _S’ gel!_ on the back of his palm before he steps into the fire grate and Floos to the training ground. His hair is still wet, but there is rain in the air and the promise of a tough session in his near future, so James doesn’t care too much. Just drops his bag on his hook in the changing room, slides fingerless gloves onto his hands, and lets himself rise, rise, rise into the crisp air, the daunting wide open sky, the ocean with not a single drop of water.

⚡

James never realises how much he misses Scorpius until he comes back home. To _James’_ home.

“Hey,” Scorpius says, appearing in a cloud of green smoke. Rucksack on his shoulder, a paper bag in his hands, _that_ look – wide eyed, quivering corner of the mouth smile – on his face. “I’ve missed you.”

James often thinks that for as much emptiness blooms in his heart when Scorpius goes for a while, there is always the promise of unwavering delight when he comes back. It’s one of the oddest principles of relationships, he thinks. The idea of always coming _back_ to someone, coming back to some set place that is declared as your own. 

They’re at that peculiar stage of a relationship where they find themselves in the midst of cohabiting, carefully combing through the steps that lead up to living together but still being a fair distance away from it happening. They mention it sometimes, little comments about _our place_ oozing into their conversations when talking about future appliance upgrades and new pieces of furniture. Scorpius has a drawer and a rack of his belongings here, and James has the same at his place. They’re in the middle of the first part of this lifelong journey, cautiously crawling across the ocean in pursuit of the sweetest companionship known to wizardkind. 

“I missed _you_ ,” James says. He takes Scorpius’ rucksack from him, loops his arm around Scorpius’ waist. His fingers find the familiar dip at the base of Scorpius’ spine, and just like that everything feels normal again. “Although, I’m surprised to see you here this early. I thought you were seeing Al and Rosie this evening?”

Scorpius hums. He smells of smoke and lemon, a little ashy around the corners and minty on his breath. “I did. Or, well, we did. But Rose wasn’t feeling too well, so we cut it short.”

James frowns. “Is she alright?”

“Yeah, yeah. Course. Nothing serious. Just a long day at work I think,” Scorpius says. He stretches out his arms, his shirt riding a little to show a sliver of his skin. He turns his head from side to side, cautiously working out the creaks and tension in his bones from a day on the hospital wards. “I feel, like, sticky. So I’m gonna go shower. Can I borrow your body wash? I’ve run out here and forgot to pick up a new bottle.”

James slips his wand out of his pocket and swirls it in the direction of the fire grate, watching the Floo cinders disappear into thin air. “I got one for you. Stopped off at the shop on the way back from training.”

Scorpius turns to look at him. “You did?”

James’ smile is a confused one. “Well, yeah? Why d’you sound so surprised?”

Scorpius shrugs. He catches James by the hand before he has a chance to head to the kitchen, reeling him in until they’re pressed together and the only thing James has the choice to look at is _him_. 

“Not surprised. Just…” Scorpius clicks his tongue as he works through his thoughts. “Happy.”

“Happy?”

Scorpius nods. “Yeah. That’s a really sweet thing to do,” he says. He kisses James – finally – all mouth and soft and sweet and like everything James has ever dreamed of and more. “It’s just nice to know you think about me, is all.”

“I’m always thinking of you.”

Scorpius gently blows an eyelash off James’ cheek. “Always?” He asks. “Like, every single second of every single day? Even when you’re _sleeping_?”

James rolls his eyes. “See, I’m just trying to flirt with you and you’re out here being pedantic,” he smiles, gently flicking Scorpius’ nose. He slips out of Scorpius’ grip, tapping his wand against the fireplace once more, this time to summon flames onto the bits of wood. “But, actually, now you mention it. Yeah, even when I’m sleeping. Since you live in my dreams.”

“The man of your dreams?”

“Merlin,” James laughs, playfully pushing Scorpius in the direction of the bathroom. “Go shower, you dork.”

“I love you!” Scorpius says in a sweet sing-songy voice as he heads down the hallway. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

James smiles. Shakes his head. Fishes about in Scorpius’ bag to find a jumper to steal; besides, it’s almost certain that Scorpius will traipse into the living room shortly wearing one of James’ Quidditch ones, it’s only fair James can do the same thing. 

He puts it on, pulls the receipt for the shower gel out of his pocket and tosses it into the bin in the kitchen. Scorpius starts the shower in the other room, and James finds himself at rest in his mind knowing Scorpius is _there_ , back where he should be, back where he should have been for his entire life.

⚡

_‘I’m laughing with my lover, making forts under covers.’_

“Oh, hey,” James says, smiling between Scorpius and Albus when steps out the fireplace and dusts himself down. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

Albus shrugs. “Neither did I,” he says. “Scorp left something at Karl and I’s place the other day. Thought I’d drop it off on my way back home from work.”

James clicks his tongue. “Course he did,” he laughs. “I’ll be back in a sec.”

Scorpius smiles at him as he steps out of the living room into the kitchen. Perhaps he’s avoiding being in the same room as both Albus and Scorpius at the same time, but that’s nobody else’s business but his own.

Actually, _no_ , he thinks. It’s not that he’s avoiding them both for no reason, it’s just that being Scorpius _and_ James is something James doesn’t like showing off in front of people, especially Albus. He’s most likely over thinking – which, admittedly, he does quite frequently these days – but he always has a bite in the back of his mind thinking that things will be _awkward_ if they do couple-like things in front of their family members. James has never been keen on public affection, particularly not around people they know, and Scorpius knows that. He’s used to it, he’s never let it become some big thing, some issue with irreversible consequences.

James just knows how fragile this all is, how delicate is the line they walk across, and he would rather stray far from the periphery of risk, even if it means holding back every now and then. This _thing_ they have reeks of love, it’s the most real and secure thing James thinks he has ever had the luxury of owning in his entire life; the last thing he plans to do at any point is put it on show, put it at _risk_.

He pours himself a glass of water, paying mild attention to the waning conversation in the living room as Albus mutters something about _needing to get home before Karl freaks out_ , their soft exchanges of _cool, I love you_.

James had known from the word go that being with Scorpius meant trying to reconfigure his position within Albus’ life as well as Scorpius’. He knew there would be some fumbling and some oddness as they worked around this new arrangement, this recent development where Albus would no longer be the only Potter to _know_ Scorpius. Where James would know things about Scorpius that even Albus didn’t. James took Scorpius’ word when he promised things would work out, that it would be okay and they would manage and there would be a time in the future where they would look back and wonder why they ever worried.

They may not be there _yet_ , at least not in James’ eyes, but they’re definitely getting closer.

“Real subtle,” Scorpius crept up behind him at some point. His chin is on James’ shoulder, his lips pressing occasional kisses to James’ neck. “I thought we left sibling bickering back in our Hogwarts years?”

James spins on his heels, taps Scorpius’ nose with his glass. “Al and I aren’t bickering.”

Scorpius hums, unconvinced.

“We _aren’t_ ,” James insists. “I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You wouldn’t have been interrupting anything.”

“Okay, let me put it _this_ way then,” James says. “I didn’t want to kiss my boyfriend in front of my _brother_ , so I thought I’d take myself out of a situation where I’d find myself tempted to do exactly that.”

Scorpius nods ever so slightly. He takes James’ cup from him, takes a sip of the water, _grimaces_ at the cool temperature. “So why have you still not done that?”

James’ expression is one of confusion. “Done what?”

“Kiss me.”

James rolls his eyes. “You’re annoying,” he laughs. He kisses Scorpius then, hands on his cheeks, the whole lot. “Happy?”

Scorpius smiles. “Euphoric,” he says. “Anyway, is that rucksack all you’re planning on bringing?”

“Um,” James says, looking down to the bag at his feet. “Yes?” He says.

Scorpius crouches. James takes the opportunity to hop onto the kitchen counter, balancing the glass of water between his legs and watching Scorpius open the rucksack and sift through the minimal supplies James has packed.

James likes _this_ the most. This comfort between them, the times where they don’t need to speak and the moments where their actions are a thousand times louder than their words could ever be. These clandestine times where it’s just the two of them, living lives nobody else knows about and doing things they don’t feel the need to broadcast. The quiet moments; James likes them the best.

“A weekend of camping and you’re bringing a t-shirt, a jumper and some sweatpants?” Scorpius asks, looking up at James from his space on the kitchen floor.

“You look pretty.”

Scorpius rolls his eyes. “Thanks, I know,” he says. “Seriously, Jamie. What if you get dirt on these? What’re you going to do then?”

“Babe, we’re going _camping_. If I get dirt on my jumper then oh well, who cares? We’ll be in a forest. S’not like anyone is going to be there to judge me.” James says.

Scorpius hums. He carefully zips the bag back up, flicking James’ half of the matching keychains they bought from Italy when they went on a trip there in the not too distant past. Then he’s stood up straight, eyes burning into James’, lips pressing kisses to James’. Then it’s just the two of them and the incessant buzzing of the light above them, the dying bulb screaming out to be changed, shouting into the void as neither of them cares to pay attention to it right now; not when they have each _other_ to focus on.

“You know you don’t have to leave the room, right?” Scorpius says. They’re separated momentarily, but still close enough that Scorpius’ breath is a ghost over James’ skin. Over his freckles and cheeks, minty, sharp, electric. “When Al is around. And Rose. And everyone else from school.”

James shrugs. Coils his legs around Scorpius’ waist to keep him close, keep him exactly where James wants him. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.”

Scorpius clicks his tongue. “You’re going to keep doing it, aren’t you?”

James saying nothing.

“Knew it.”

“Does it bother you?” James asks.

Scorpius thinks for a moment. The lightbulb dies out above them, fizzing into nothingness right over their heads. “No,” he says. He’s quiet, but in the absence of light he sounds like the brightest orchestra, the loudest and loveliest composition known to wizardkind. “I just wanted to check you were doing it by choice, not because you felt pressured.”

“Oh, no. I never feel pressured to do anything. Not with you.”

James can _feel_ Scorpius smile without seeing it. “Really?”

“Yeah. All comes naturally, babe,” James says. “You have that effect on people.”

“Unfortunate,” Scorpius sighs. “Since you’re the only one I _want_ to have that effect on.”

And as much as James wishes he could see him right now, as much as he wants to look at Scorpius and fall into the endless abyss of his soulful eyes and have his attention trickle across his freckles and the laugh lines and the fleeting quivers of his lips as he smiles, he thinks he would die if Scorpius saw _him_. Him and his flushed skin and hollow cheeks and his burning, _burning_ heart. James knows he would look humiliating; he mentally thanks the lightbulb for seizing to exist, for giving James this luxury of complete darkness.

“We should go,” James says after clearing his throat, letting the effect of Scorpius’ words wash through him. “Before it gets too late. We don’t really wanna be building a tent in the pitch black.”

Through the emptiness, Scorpius helps him off the counter, keeps their fingers twined, carries the burden of their luggage as they head into the living room for the last time that evening. James, for all his use, just hangs on, brushing his thumb over the rises and dips of Scorpius’ knuckles, over the great expanse of his hand.

Scorpius kisses him out of nowhere. “I love you.”

James goes to respond but finds the words ripped from his throat, finds his _body_ ripped from the plane of existence they’re in. When he finds his voice again he stabilises himself on the forest floor.

“You bastard,” James laughs, swatting Scorpius in the chest. “You didn’t give me any warning.”

“Well, _yeah_. Because whenever I give you warning you get all worried and nauseous looking and it takes me about ten minutes to convince you to let me _do_ it,” Scorpius says, stealing a kiss just before James has time to protest anymore. “You know, you’re _gorgeous_ , but you’d look even better if instead of yelling at me you put up the tent.”

So James does.

They locate a spot on the campground – this Muggle one James’ Aunt Hermione helped them find – and set up the tent, Scorpius prodding their fire with a stick to get the embers bright and the water boiling. They bubble around each other for a while, James fixing up their blow-up mattress and making the bed (Scorpius’ _least_ favourite chore, James has learnt), and Scorpius scraping together some semblance of a dinner for them to eat.

The sky is inky, little blots of grey clouds smudged over the indigo and navy backdrop. It’s relatively clear otherwise, a few flickering stars winking their way through the early night murk, slowly but surely getting brighter as the moon does, too.

James whips out a blanket and lays it on the ground just outside the entrance to their tent, sifting through Scorpius’ bag for the disposable plates and cutlery. Scorpius had grumbled when James put them in their basket in the supermarket, muttering something about _non-reusable resources_ and _slowly killing the planet_.

“Beans on toast,” Scorpius says, setting a plate in front of James on the blanket. “The crusts are a bit burnt – it’s incredibly difficult to try and toast bread with your wand without burning your hand – but it should be good enough.”

James grins. “Ah, a lush British delicacy,” he teases, pressing a firm kiss to Scorpius’ jaw. “Thank you, gorgeous.”

Scorpius sits next to him, cross-legged and staring up at the sky. James knows he’s looking for constellations, joining them up with invisible lines in his mind. It’s pretty jarring, James thinks, to look from something as constant and sure as Scorpius to then look at the abyss above, at this ever-changing and meticulously mysterious barren space over their heads.

James often muses on the thought that Scorpius was made for another planet, but somehow ended up here along the way. For it doesn’t make sense to him that someone like Scorpius exists in this world of darkness, this rumbling jagged-edged place of pain, when he has so much goodness to expel into the air.

Scorpius’ goodness is wasted on this planet. The streets don’t deserve his swiftness, the sky doesn’t deserve his doting gaze as he longingly looks for the North Star and guides his eyes around the dot-to-dot puzzle towering over them at all times. Even _James_ doesn’t deserve him; his affection, his incomprehensible patience and thoughtfulness.

“You’re being loud,” Scorpius says. His gaze breaks from the sky, settles on James, right into his eyes. “I’m sure whatever you’re thinking isn’t that important you need to tire your brain out thinking about it.”

“I disagree.” James says.

Scorpius smiles. “Yeah?” He asks. “Why’s that?”

“Because I’m thinking about you,” James answers. “And that’s the most important thing in the world to me.”

He’s saying _I love you_ without really saying _I love you_. He’s said those words so many times they feel as if they’ve lost their weight. They haven’t, of course, and Scorpius persistently assures him of that fact, but James still feels repetitive. So he says it in ways that make sense to him at the time, in ways that nobody else would pick up on in they happened to overhear their conversations.

“You’re so swoon-worthy, Potter.” Scorpius says. James’ mission works, though, as Scorpius leans over to kiss him.

The rest of the evening seems to run away from them, the time slipping through their fingers like dust as they eat, clean, play card games, rush to repair the tent when a particularly violent gust of wind knocks it over. As they _exist_. With each other. Around each other. Because of each other.

At one point Scorpius leans over to tap James’ knee. James looks at him, smiles, goes to ask what’s wrong when Scorpius says, “I love when you smile at me.”

“Come again?”

“I love when you smile at me,” Scorpius says again. “Because it’s the nicest thing in the world, even better when it’s because of me.”

And, _yeah_. That slows time right back down. It freezes it, almost. And for a moment it’s just James and Scorpius and all those fucking stars and all the time in the world for them to burn, concurrently, eternally, _faithfully_ , by each other’s side, until the sun burns out.

⚡

James is moments away from sleep when he hears Scorpius roll over beside him, the sleeping bag rustling as he props himself up on one elbow. James considers pretending like he is asleep, but then Scorpius says, “Why didn’t you ask me out at Hogwarts?” and, really, James can’t ignore _that_.

He peels his eyes open, glances at Scorpius through the dark. “What kind of question is _that_ for this time of night?” He says as he waves his wand, casts a silent _lumos_ , lighting the tent just enough so they can see each other’s faces.

Scorpius shrugs. “It’s a question I’ve wondered the answer to for a while.”

“A _while_?” James asks. He reaches up to push Scorpius’ hair off his face, the strands falling freely between James’ fingers as he fiddles with the parting.

“Was it because I’m your little brother’s nerdy best friend?”

James scoffs. “You really think I’m that reductive?” He asks. Scorpius says nothing. “ _Hey_!”

“No, _no_. I don’t. I’m just _curious_ , because you say you’ve liked me for ages but you never _did_ anything about it,” Scorpius whispers. “So obviously I’m going to jump to conclusions.”

“Gorgeous,” James says, leaning on the pet name he knows softens Scorpius the most. “I wasn’t going to make a move on my brother’s best friend.”

“So it _was_ because I’m Al’s nerdy best friend.”

James scowls at him. “Did I say the word nerdy? No, stop putting words in my mouth,” he says, leaning across the space to kiss him. “Your friendship with Albus wasn’t the only reason, but it was top of the list.”

There’s an owl somewhere outside, hooting aimlessly into the blank emptiness of rural England forestry. Perhaps if James were to really concentrate he would be able to hear some distant conversations from other tents, little fragments of hushed discussions and bit back laughter as families and couples and friends make memories over fiery torchlight, blankets clutched around their shoulders, the breeze falling off the lake whipping the thin material of their shelter. He imagines someone not too far away doing the exact same thing, eyes squeezed shut and ears pricked ready to detect the slightest sound; perhaps someone is listening to _their_ conversation, their gently exchanged utterances as they delve into this previously unexplored terrain of their relationship.

Scorpius doesn’t say anything, so James just continues.

“Look, I assume as best friends you know how much you mean to each other, but I’m not sure _you_ know how much you mean to the _Potter’s_.”

Scorpius frowns at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that there was a lot at stake when it came to you,” James says. “I love Albus so much. He’s been through way too much for someone his age, so when we – the family – saw him coming out of his shell the second _you_ came around, we all immediately knew there would be nothing we could do in the future to repay what you’ve done for Al. Being there for him when we couldn’t be, making sure he stayed okay, if not _happy_. You mean a lot to Albus, sure, but you mean a lot to all of us because of what you did for him, what you keep doing for him.

“Sure, I started _sort_ of liking you at school, but I never had plans to act on it because I knew that for the inch of feelings I had for you, Albus had a _mile_. I knew, at that point in time, what I thought I wanted with you couldn’t compete with what Albus needed from you. And perhaps I shouldn’t have put Albus’ feelings above mine for as long as I did, but I wasn’t going to step in and potentially fuck up the best thing that happened to him, and to you.” James explains, adding a shrug at the end for good luck. Sure, he’ll be mushy, but he has a reputation to maintain. Can’t let himself slip _too_ much.

Scorpius walks his fingers up James’ arm, looking at him with an expression James can’t quite place. “S’why you always leave the room, huh?”

James nods. “Yeah.”

“You know he doesn’t care, right?” Scorpius says. He pauses to take a drink of water, the summer breeze shaking their tent ever so slightly. “About us. He’s not going to, like, turn into flames if you kiss me in front of him.”

“You can try and convince me, but I’m pretty set on this.”

“Set on what?” Scorpius asks. “That Albus will freak the fuck out if _his_ brother is affectionate with his partner? Where’s the logic in that, bub?”

James hums. “I never claimed that my thoughts and reasons were rational,” he says. “They’re just _thoughts_. I care about this,” he gestures between them, “and I care you, and I care about _him_ too much to even want to change the routine at this point. Why fix what isn’t broken?”

Scorpius frowns. “Well, I could say the same to you, couldn’t I? You’re trying to fix something that isn’t broken by leaving when one of my friends is around.”

“You told me earlier that it doesn’t bother you.”

“It _doesn’t_ ,” Scorpius says. “But I'm not sure I believe you when you say it doesn’t bother _you_.”

James sits up. “It doesn’t bother me. Honestly, gorgeous. I do it through choice, and I guess I do it because if the roles were reversed and Al was dating _my_ best friend, I’d appreciate the thought of Al making space every now and then,” he says. “Besides, I see you plenty. I’m sure I can cope with being in a different room every now and then.”

Scorpius hums. He sets the torch down to the side for a moment so he can kiss James, blowing hair out of his face so they can better see each other in the dim lighting. “What were the other reasons?” He asks. “If being your brother’s nerdy best friend wasn’t the _only_ reason.”

“Why’re you suddenly so curious about the past, huh?” James teases, gesturing for Scorpius to pass over the bottle of water. “I mean, for starters, do you recall me ever actually dating anyone at school?”

Scorpius presses his lips into a thin line. “Guess not,” he muses. “So, what, you were so busy pining over how _great_ I was that you had no time for other people?”

“It’s a good job you’re cute, you know,” James says, shuffling about until he is leaning against Scorpius, staring at the milky green roof of the tent. Scorpius, for what it’s worth, kisses the top of James’ head, anchoring him in place with the slinging of his arm around James’ shoulders. “As much as I was perhaps preoccupied with you _some_ times, that’s not what I was going for.”

“Sounds fake, but okay.”

James smiles at him, shakes his head as he continues. “I never wanted to draw more attention to myself than what had pre-emptively been placed on me since I arrived there, you know? Being the first Potter kid to go to Hogwarts meant there was, like, never a day of peace. Everything I did had some sort of rumour attached to it. Can you _imagine_ if I dated people? Merlin, I never would’ve had a chance to breathe. As much as I loved Hogwarts, those hallways were a demonic whirlpool of rumours every single day of the week.”

“So you’re telling me you didn’t use the Prefect’s bathroom to shack up with your newest conquests when you managed to woo them?” Scorpius teases.

James grimaces. “Was that seriously something you heard about me?”

Scorpius clicks his tongue. “Yup,” he says. “It scandalised all the First Year Slytherin kids, that’s for sure.”

James pulls Scorpius down by the neck of his jumper to kiss him, just because he can. “It wasn’t true.”

“I know.”

James muses for a moment, wishes the tent were transparent so he could see the stars and the great black sky in all of its glory. “Why didn’t my shitty reputation put you off me?” He asks. “If I heard a rumour that some guy in a year above me was doing _that_ shit in the bathrooms I would think he were a right dick.”

“Because I knew they were false,” Scorpius says. “You forget I’ve had the luxury of knowing the authentic James Potter since I was eleven years old. Didn’t matter how many times I saw you skulking around with your broom over your shoulder, you would always be that guy who let me borrow some of his pyjamas the first time I stayed over at his house because I dropped pumpkin juice over my own.”

James smiles. “It would’ve been cruel if I hadn’t. You looked _mortified_.”

Scorpius laughs to himself. It sounds like liquid gold, like the sound of the lock in the door turning when you’re waiting for someone particular to come home, to come back to _you_. “I _was_ mortified. Honestly one of my worst nightmares,” he says. Then he leans down, gently nudges their noses together. “Hey.”

James kisses him. “Hey,” he says. “You look cute from this angle.”

Scorpius smiles, brushes his thumbs over James’ cheeks and seems to rub this layer of love over the colour in his skin, staining him permanently with this rose flush that only Scorpius brings out in him. And maybe James is biased, and maybe he inflates the image of Scorpius he has in his mind because he’s so mind-numbingly infatuated with him, but he really believes that Scorpius is the single greatest demonstrator of love in the entire world. It seeps into the way he so carefully dotes on James, making sure all of his metaphorical strings are tied, keeping him upright and making sure he never falls too far from the pavement.

But maybe it doesn’t matter that James is biased. Maybe none of it really matters at all; all that matters is that it’s _real_. Is that it’s reciprocated.

“Not to sound like a cheesy guy on a first date, or something,” Scorpius suddenly says. “But I love spending time with you.”

James flicks his nose. “Cute, but, you know, we _always_ spend time together.”

“This is different, though,” Scorpius rolls his eyes. “Here it’s quite literally just the two of us. And the strangers in their tents. Just you, me, and the moon. We should camp more often.”

“Or we could block our fireplaces so nobody can Floo into our apartments.”

Scorpius laughs. “That was _one_ time, James. I forgot I invited Rose over for dinner. Trust me, she was as mortified to see you as you were her.”

James yawns. He stretches out endlessly over the blow up mattress, his limbs tangling with Scorpius’ and their jumpers scratching against each other’s as he shuffles and twists and tries to find a comfortable position to rest.

“Tired?” Scorpius kisses his forehead.

James hums. “Kinda,” he says. “It’s probably, what, like two in the morning?”

“Time is meaningless when I’m with you.”

“Time goes too _fast_ ,” James corrects. “When I’m with you.”

Scorpius settles down, too. Lies back against the mattress and curls himself into the sleeping bags they brought with them. James is sure Scorpius can hear his heartbeat from the way he rests his head on James’ chest, the two of them tandem and balancing against each other in a way that only _they_ could withstand. In a way that makes it obvious they’re meant to rest like this, two pieces of the same puzzle, two beings dreamt up in the same perfect fantasy.

“Maybe we should spend _less_ time together, then, if time goes too fast.”

James shakes his head. He presses his nose into Scorpius’ hair and breathes in this scent he loves so much and savours these musing seconds of the late night stillness as a means to remind himself that this is _it_ , this is the reality in which he has the honour to exist.

Scorpius is all soft edges and sharp wit and somehow he always knows how to make things make sense. Knows how to take the jumbled up nonsensical blocks in James’ head and organise them into fluent thoughts, thoughts that have some semblance of reason and have some _value_ to them. He’s like the ominous creak in the floor from a shitty horror film, something that just teases enough interest to keep you coming back even if you have no idea where it’ll get you, only for you to arrive and to realise there was no real danger after all save for your own insecurities.

“Fuck no,” James says. He presses their palms together beneath the sleeping bag, and Scorpius completes the unit by twining their fingers. “There’s nothing in the world that’d make me voluntarily take time away from you.”

Scorpius’ laugh is a breathy one, and somewhere between that motion and the distant hoot of an owl among the thicket the two of them dissolve into a dreamless sleep. Because, of course, what in the world would they need to dream up when the finest inventions their imaginations could ever conjure exist in the world already, in the shape of each other, content and perpetual, by each other’s sides?

⚡

_‘Always, I want to be with you, and make believe with you, and live in harmony.’_

It’s late. _Too_ late. The depth of night where not even the foxes are still daring to wander around the streets, darting between fences and hiding beneath bushes when an anomalous car rumbles along the tarmac.

James has training in the morning; or, well, in a few hours’ time. Scorpius doesn’t know that, of course, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt.

“Give me a second,” Scorpius says, fingertips pressed to his temples, eyes screwed shut as he wracks that wonderful mind of his for the answer to James’ question. “Ah, yes! _Anapneo_.”

James smiles. “Brill, Scorp,” he says, flipping the revision card to the back of the pile. “Orange in colour and thick consistency are two notable characteristics of which healing potion, with what effects?”

“Oh, _oh_. I know this one,” Scorpius snaps his fingers, scrunches his nose in the most endearing way. “Burn-Healing Paste. It, as the name suggests, heals and vanishes burns from the skin, preventing scarring or internal damage.”

James nods. “You’re going to smash this interview, gorgeous,” he says, setting the complete pile of revision cards on the table when they finish going through them. Scorpius doesn’t appear all too convinced by James’ comment, shrugging off the compliment as he spins round and round on the chair in his kitchen. “You _are_.”

“I just don’t want to get my hopes up,” Scorpius muses. James watches him cross the kitchen floor, bunny slippers soundless over the tiles, watches him fill a glass of water and drink it and fill it up again. “All I hear are horror stories about people failing this interim interview and being sent back to the beginning of the Trainee Healer programme, and I think I’ll cry if I have to do this all over again for two more years.”

James hums. “But you won’t. Because you’re incredibly intelligent, and you know the content back to front, and you care so deeply about the patients you see and the work you do that it would be utterly nonsensical for anyone to fail you.”

“You’re biased.”

James’ eyes roll. “Or, perhaps, _you’re_ too cruel to yourself.”

Scorpius sets the empty glass into the sink. James flicks his wand in the direction of the glass, wordlessly charming it to be cleaned and set back in the cabinets just as Scorpius appears in front of him, delicately tilts his chin up, and kisses him firmly in the milky light of the moon.

James thinks Scorpius looks utterly radiant, yet, somehow, fading around the edges. He would give all the money in the world to know what goes through Scorpius’ mind sometimes, to get a glimmer of the thoughts that plague his conscious and infiltrate his unconscious when he sleeps.

“I’m sorry for keeping you up so late.” Scorpius says.

James shakes his head. “It’s nothing.”

“It _is_ ,” Scorpius insists. James sees it coming from a mile off. “I hate burdening you with this.”

“This?” James repeats.

Scorpius aimlessly gestures to the space around them; James frowns. “Yeah, _this_. All my nonsense. This, like, unshakable pessimism I can’t get rid of. I can’t imagine how irritating it must be to deal with.”

“Okay, first, I’m not _dealing_ with anything. ‘Deal’ makes it sound like it’s bothersome for me to support you, which it isn’t. And, second, it isn’t irritating.” James says.

“But–”

“No, Scorp. Listen to me,” James says. “I am _proud_ of you, and I _love_ you. All of you. Which includes, but isn’t limited to, your passion for your work. I don’t mind sitting up going through revision cards with you at four in the morning if it means you’ll have peace of mind. In fact, I’m honoured you trust me so much to help you with this. Because I know it’s important to you, so being included in whatever way is reassuring to _me_.”

Scorpius looks at the floor. James imagines the pinky hue on his cheeks which the darkness prevents him from seeing. “Thank you,” he says. Outside, in the distance where the thicket begins and the birds rustle in their nests, the dawn chorus begins. “I really appreciate that. And you.”

“I know.”

Scorpius stretches. “Okay, I think I can sleep now,” he says. “Bed?”

“I’ll catch up. Just gonna take a few to tidy up so we don’t have to do it in the morning.”

Scorpius nods. Kisses him once, twice, thrice. “Cool. See you in a sec.”

James hears, rather than watches, Scorpius leave the kitchen. Outside the window – the blinds not drawn – twilight eclipses them. The sky is dim and distantly alight with colours, but the stars still hang on for dear life. There’s a specific type of serenity felt in existing during these moments. Where everything else is so quiet, but everything in _you_ is so loud.

Loud with thoughts, with love, with anything and everything.

James finishes washing the dishes, puts away the mugs and tucks the chairs back under the island so neither of the two accidentally bump into the rough edges when they stumble sleepily into the kitchen the morning after. He neatly lines up the revision cards into a complete pile, wrapping an elastic band over them to keep them in place. On the back, using a pencil he finds in the fruit bowl for whatever odd reason, he writes a sentence, draws a heart, signs his name.

James drags himself through the desolate darkness towards Scorpius’ bedroom. The words on his lips as he presses an unacknowledged kiss to Scorpius’ cheek – Scorpius already deep in sleep, lost in what James hopes is an effortlessly glorious dreamscape – match the words he wrote mere seconds before.

_Love, proud of & adore you. Yours, yours, yours – James._

⚡

_‘Everything I need I get from you, giving back is all I want to do.’_

James has always believed that doing good with what one has been given during their time on the planet is something to be attended to with grave importance. Making beauty from the simple gifts, the delicate cadence of speech they may harbour, for example, or treading with light steps, a gift from the patience they hold in their souls, around those in trouble until they resurface from the depths of pain to breathe once more.

He’s always been taught that being good is the one sure thing you can do in life. The path of existence is clouded with many uncertainties, many sinister twists and turns where the consequences cannot be foretold – in spite of your best attempts at tea leaf readings – but one gift which is unaffected by such murk is the gift of _good_.

James likes to think he’s good; he may not be perfect all the time, but he is good, for the most part. James is, also, surprisingly good at repairs. Clothes repairs, maintenance repairs. He presumes it comes in equal parts from his experience as the oldest sibling (the kid everyone comes running to when they need to hide a broken vase or torn coat from their parents) and from being around his grandparents’ so frequently when he was younger.

His Grandfather taught him – sort of – basic repairs of Muggle things. James taught him _self_ , if he’s honest, mainly from hours sat watching his Grandfather take apart and then put back together all of the trinkets he’s accumulated over the years. And clothing repairs… well. That’s a given when your wardrobe is filled with handmade clothes, each weave of the yarn having absorbed so much time and effort and sentimentality that James has refused to get rid of any of them, even when they don’t fit anymore.

Anyway, the moral of the story is that while James tries his hardest to be, and hopes that he is, good in his soul, he _knows_ he is good at repairs. So when he’s sifting through his weekly laundry pile, separating darks from lights and denim from wool, and he notices a hole in the jumper his Grandmother knitted Scorpius last Christmas, his course of action is already set in stone. He digs through his drawers, finds the sewing kit his mum put together when he moved out for the first time, and sets to darning the jumper, eradicating the hole, putting everything back where it is supposed to be.

It doesn’t take too long, and only a few stitches go awry during the process which he meticulously repairs one by one, and by the end of the working day, he has in front of him an almost good as new jumper. There are only so many things he can fix, and a singed cuff at the sleeve from when Scorpius burnt a batch of shortbread cookies with Lily one Christmas is _not_ on that list, so James is content with his small accomplishments.

And what feels like mere minutes after he woke up for the day – darning and repairing sure makes time fly, it seems – James is walking through the door of Scorpius’ flat, jumper in hand, kicking his shoes by the coatrack and heading directly to the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says, pressing a kiss to Scorpius’ cheek when he catches up to him at the kitchen sink. “You look tired.”

Scorpius hums. He shakes his hands over the basin, drying them on a tea towel when he’s finished washing dishes from the evening prior. “I am a little,” he says. “Long day at work.”

“Stressful?”

Scorpius ponders the question for a moment. “No, not really. A little sad, I guess, but not stressful. There were a few admitted patients today who were… a little worse for wear. It’s kind of nauseating sometimes.”

James nods, gently rubs the dip in Scorpius’ hips, listens intently to every single word. “You know you struggle to shut off on the best of days, so it only makes sense that a particularly hard day takes longer to shake off.”

“I know,” Scorpius sighs. “But that’s the job that I signed up to, so. I shouldn’t complain. Anyway – _hi_. I’ve missed you.”

Scorpius kisses him, on the lips this time, and his breath is uncharacteristically mintier than James is used to. “You spoke to me yesterday, gorgeous.”

“But yesterday isn’t _today_ , dork, so by my standards enough time has passed that it’s reasonable for me to have missed you,” Scorpius says. He glances at the jumper in James’ hands, and nods to it when they separate momentarily. “You brought a jumper?”

James shakes his head. “I brought _you_ a jumper,” he says, handing it to Scorpius as he steps to the fridge to pour himself a glass of apple juice. “I noticed there was a hole in it, so I spent the day patching it up. Consider it a gift, or something. Or just me being, like, the best boyfriend on the planet.”

“You fixed it?” Scorpius asks. James looks at him, mildly bewildered at the dainty tone of his voice. “Merlin, I thought this jumper was _done_ for. I was dreading asking your grandmother to knit me a new one. _Thank_ you.”

James’ head tilts to the side. He shrugs his shoulder, sips his juice. “It’s fine, Scorp. You don’t need to thank me for doing the bare minimum.”

“Jamie, the bare minimum would’ve been saying to me _hey, Scorpius, did you know there’s a hole in your jumper_? In my books the bare minimum is nowhere _near_ actually fixing the jumper,” Scorpius says, his voice muffled momentarily as he slips the jumper over his head. “Thank you, honey. I love this jumper almost as much as I love you.”

“ _Almost_?” James drawls, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Wow, and here I was thinking you loved me _way_ more than you loved anything else in the entire _world_.”

Scorpius rolls his eyes. “You’re so annoying. It’s a wonder you’re so cute because otherwise I wouldn’t keep you around.”

James hums, unconvinced. Scorpius looks a little hazy around the edges in the low light of the kitchen, the almost metallic glow from the lanterns bouncing off the rims of his reading glasses, making him appear slightly ghostlike. Surreal. Too good to be true.

“That’s a lie and you _know_ it.” James says.

Scorpius ignores him. “What d’you fancy for dinner?”

“You.”

Scorpius looks at him. Everything feels a little electric. “Shut _up_ ,” he laughs. “Did you fall off your broom at training or something? Or are you regressing into your heartthrob Hogwarts personality?”

“ _Hey_ , you asked a question and I answered. I’m sorry if my answer wasn’t to your satisfaction.”

“It wasn’t,” Scorpius says, pressing a defiant kiss to the corner of James’ mouth as he passes him on route to the cabinets, hands extracting lasagne sheets from a box. “I was hoping you’d say, you know, the name of a meal I could _cook_. With actual ingredients. Following a recipe.”

“That would’ve been boring.”

Scorpius pokes James’ cheek. “Nothing is boring when you’re around.”

James grins. “Okay, you’ve won me back over,” he says. “Anything I can help with?”

“You can chop some of the vegetables if you feel like being useful.”

James nods, pushes himself off the counter, and heads to the chopping board. He sneaks occasional glances over his shoulder to watch Scorpius making the sauce, cosy and warm in his jumper. Watches him fiddle with the singed cuff, a flicker of a smile on his face, the memories golden in his mind.

The evening feels like it’s descending into one of those moments that James, later in life, will recall as a catalyst for him falling deeper in love with Scorpius, more in love than he ever thought possible. One of those moments where he realises this love is eternal, so much bigger than he ever thought possible, so big he feels like he could drown in it some days. But he knows he won’t. He knows he will always float, _soar_ even, through it all. Scorpius will never let him drown; James will never let himself drown, either.

“So you’re not mad I went rummaging through your laundry and fixed up the jumper?” James asks later that evening, the two sat adjacent to each other at Scorpius’ tiny little dining table, a lamp above them buzzing in this incessant tinny tone.

Scorpius shakes his head, reaches across the table to drum his fingers over James’ knuckles. “No, I’m not. I would never be mad over that.”

James nods. “Cool,” he says. “I know you really like the jumper.”

“Enough that I’ve worn it to the point of breaking.”

“At least I can fix it when it begins to fall apart.”

Scorpius _ooh’s_ beside him. “So metaphorical,” he says. “Fix my jumper _and_ fix me.”

“I can’t fix what isn’t broken, gorgeous.”

“You can make it better though.”

James hums. “I don’t think you’re giving yourself enough credit,” he says. “You’re perfect just as you are.”

“I’m better with you,” Scorpius insists. “Okay, so… maybe you don’t _fix_ me, but you help me. And all that cliché shit.”

James smiles. “I’ll accept that.”

“Good.”

They eat. They drink apple juice. The silence is cataclysmic, it speaks louder than anything they could ever say would. It’s sickeningly comfortable, the picture perfect image of _balance_. Of love. Of that sort of feeling you can’t quite put your finger on, something that feels fragile and so vibrant and so alive. It _feels_.

“Albus wants us to go over for drinks and board games next weekend,” Scorpius says suddenly. “Do you have any immediate aversions to that proposal?”

James blinks. “ _Immediate aversions to that proposal?_ ” He repeats. “What the fuck. Since when do we speak in fancy business language?”

Scorpius rolls his eyes. “Answer the question.”

James muses. Scorpius stares at him. “No, I don’t have any immediate aversions to that proposal,” he says, finally. “He specifically invited both of us? Or he invited you and said you could bring someone?”

“No, he specifically invited both of us,” Scorpius says. “As an _us_.”

James nods. “Okay,” he says. “Guess we’re going to play board games and drink Albus’ shitty cheap wine next weekend.”

Scorpius snickers into his apple juice. “Shitty cheap wine?” He asks. “You’re so cruel to your brother.”

“It’s true. He has an atrocious taste in wine. And, anyway, I’m the oldest sibling, so I’m always automatically correct, whatever the argument is.” James says.

Scorpius kisses him, ruffles up his hair, makes him feel so adored with the simplest of actions. “I think it’ll be fun.”

“So do I.”

And it’s so simple. It’s everything and nothing all in one go. It’s yet another step along this path of odd domestication, where they slowly begin to merge into a package deal, both of them at the same time or neither of them at all.

James is struck at once with a memory from Teddy and Victoire’s wedding, from when they were exchanging their vows, reciting lines from poems they chose. He remembers the lines _let us blend our souls as one, hearts’ and senses’ ecstasies, evergreen, in unison with the pines’ vague lethargies_ , remembers feelings lost to the meaning, not buying into the idea that you could love someone so dearly you mould into one with them.

But then he looks at Scorpius and wonders how he could have ever been so foolish. Wonders how he ever lived in such naiveté, blind to the eternal sunshine of love that lived so close to him, mere millimetres away at all times.

And James gets it now. It isn’t really a process you have control over. He and Scorpius aren’t deciding to be _one_ ; everyone else is doing it for them. People refer to them as James _and_ Scorpius, one entity, a single piece. They don’t unite themselves, but they unite as a consequence of everyone else doing just _that_. Their nearest and dearest see them, and the love is clear, the devotion is so blatant and transparent that it’s _clear_ it’s a forever kind of deal. So it makes sense to call them _one_.

And then it catches on. And suddenly they are blended, as if by magic, and they’ve been this _thing_ for a while now and it’s like there has never been another way to live. As if there was never a time when they would go to weddings and parties and dinners as single individuals, without a hand to hold and a person to lean on if things ever turned frisky.

Scorpius is the finest gift James has ever been given. He says, “I’ll do the washing up this evening. You can finish reading your book, since I’m pretty sure it’s due at the library tomorrow?”

And Scorpius smiles at him. “You’re a gift,” he says. “An absolute treasure.”

And James disagrees, of course. Wants to shake his head and say _no_ , actually, _you are_. But he doesn’t. He just smiles, kisses Scorpius, picks up the plates and heads to the sink. The water is uncomfortably warm on his skin, and the soap stings little cuts and grazes on his fingertips caused by splinters on his broomstick. But it doesn’t matter. None of it does. Because Scorpius is in the next room, quietly humming to himself, flicking through the pages of his book.

And how could any minor inconvenience matter when he has _that_ in his life? When he has such a boy, such a joy, by his side. James can’t ever imagine being dissatisfied with life, ever labouring too much time and emotion on something as insignificant as mild discomfort while washing dishes, because James has Scorpius. And that, in itself, clears any misery from his mind.

Keeps him clean, inside and out. Just like magic.

⚡

_‘Like that night in the back of the cab when your fingers walked in my hand.’_

Suddenly it is summer, and they lie on a blanket in the garden, engaged in a battle of chess neither of them are really paying attention to, for their minds are irrevocably focussed on each other.

Focussed on the way their fingers occasionally brush as they dance across the board, fiddling with their pieces and tracing through their minds the potential motions the game could take. James sits cross-legged, Scorpius lies on his front. Occasionally, when it isn’t his turn and he needs something to pass the time, Scorpius reaches over to trace small circles over James’ knee, overlapping the plaster protecting a cut – inflicted during his last game of the season; a Bludger to his kneecap – and trickling coolly over James’ exposed skin.

James should be looking at his pieces, but he looks, instead, at Scorpius’ hands. His knuckles, the little ink doodles over the side, small love hearts and stars and a cursive _J_ beginning to fade, but still glimmering under the butterscotch sunshine. His fingertips are calloused from constant cleaning during his shifts at St. Mungo’s, and the thin papercuts between the lines on his palms don’t forego James’ notice; papercuts from nervous moments sifting through textbooks, through guides of what ingredient to mix into which potion to provide _such_ effect, and so forth. He makes a mental note to ask about work – and stress – later in the day.

Later. Not _now_ , of course. Not while he’s sat opposite this boy and the burning in his chest is something like a ghostly reminiscence of the feeling of the sun on his skin as they drove, one summer a year or so ago, upstate from New York to share a holiday with one of James’ former teammates. The comforting blossom of sunshine over his skin, of Scorpius’ kisses lingering on his cheeks, of apple juice on his lips and the tang over his tongue.

Loving Scorpius is a little like every great sensation in the world bundled into one profound intake of breath. Like one moment there was nothing – his senses were completely neutral and he lived a life of simplicities, meandering aimlessly through the world – and then the next moment he had felt it _all_. Felt the taste of the sweetest wine, shuddered through the most intense adrenaline rush. Climbed the tallest mountain, seen the most enchanting sunset.

Like before there was nothing, and now there is _everything_.

James moves a piece, and then the roles reverse. He puts _his_ hand on _Scorpius’_ arm, tracing _his_ skin and curling over the edge of _his_ sleeve, while Scorpius ponders the board. From some room in the Burrow, dripping through an open window and dissolving quickly into the humid air, someone laughs. Then someone else. And so on, and so on. James just keeps watching Scorpius rather than the game, focusses on Scorpius rather than the game, does almost anything other than focus on the game.

“I like this one the most.”

James blinks, his head tilts to the side. Scorpius is looking at him then, his fingers sinisterly wrapped around the neck of one of his pawn pieces. “This one?” He asks.

“Touch,” Scorpius says. “I like this one the most. I like that it’s just for _me_. That _you’re_ just for me. I’ve seen you play a lot of games of chess, and you never touch any of your other rivals.”

James hums. “The main difference there, gorgeous, is that you’re not my _rival_.”

Scorpius moves his pawn, takes James’ bishop, lines the piece up nicely at the edge of the board. “I know,” he says. “And I’m very glad.”

James wins the match, and as he celebrates his victory with a fresh glass of cranberry juice Scorpius twirls his wand to pack the pieces back into the box. Then there’s nothing between them except space that shouldn’t be, and James wastes no time in erasing it, sidling up close to Scorpius’ side and pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“So,” he says, setting his glass back down on the fallen leaf coaster he stole from beneath a tree at the bottom of the garden. A frog fills the silence between James’ comments, humble croaking from somewhere he can’t see. “Touch, huh? You think that’s your love language?”

“Well, I mean. My language, as I said ages ago, is honestly whatever _you_ speak, but I guess if I _have_ to pick one… it’d be touch.”

James rolls his eyes. “So cheesy,” he says. “So romantic, so _gentlemanly_. Can tell you were raised by posh parents.”

Scorpius flicks his nose, then lets his fingertip drag down James’ rosy cheeks, settling on the curve of his neck, the dainty hollow dip where his collarbone pops out ever so slightly. “Ah, of course. My father _definitely_ instilled in me such romantic, lothario traits with the specific goal of having me flirt with a Potter. You’ve cracked the code.”

“I love you.” James says, and he looks right at Scorpius as if he’s the only thing to exist on the planet, as if he’s the greatest wonder of the world, the finest symphony – the blinding North Star on a cold, dreary winter’s evening.

James knows he’s inescapably lovestruck, knows he tumbled headfirst into the enchanting rabbit hole of Scorpius Malfoy so long ago there is no chance he will ever be able to leave. But that doesn’t mean he is _used_ to it, that the shocking feeling of love that ignites in his bones and shivers over his skin whenever Scorpius looks at him in _that_ sort of way is something familiar to him, something that doesn’t leave him bewildered.

James doesn’t think you ever get used to the feeling of reciprocated love. Of giving, and then seeing your efforts returned, matched, or even _bettered_ , perhaps. James doesn’t believe he’s necessarily undeserving of love, and his insecurities lie mainly in his area of work rather than manifesting in any form of self-consciousness, but it is always nice and always slightly terrifying to be loved, to be so open with someone and let them into the deepest intricacies of your very being. Because being loved requires just _that_. It requires unmatched transparency, irrepressible loyalty, and unwavering trust. To be open with someone and to trust that they won’t do you wrong is a trait to be harboured through practice, through application, through being in love and losing that love and working yourself up to go through the process all over again, accepting that the pain could come again despite your best intentions.

James has finally reached his pinnacle point, though. In front of him sits someone who will never do him wrong, who would rather cease to exist than ever mislay James’ affection and intimacy. It used to scare James, realising he was falling and falling and falling and not knowing whether Scorpius believed it to be worth the risk to catch him; but he did. And he continues to catch him every single day.

Scorpius’ fingers are hovering over James’ pulse point. “You tell me that a lot.” He says.

“And I mean it every single time.”

He raises an eyebrow. “ _Every_ single time?”

“Of course,” James asserts. “My parents didn’t raise a liar.”

Scorpius shakes his head. “I know,” he says. “They raised a wonderboy. _My_ wonderboy.”

“ _Yours_?”

“Yes.”

James kisses him. He tastes of cherry alcopops and sherbet lemon sweets. “Lucky me.”

Scorpius smiles at him. “I’m going to get some water,” he says after a moment of silence passes. “Want anything?”

James shakes his head.

“Cool,” he says. “I’ll be back in a second.”

And then he gets up and he walks away and he takes with him a fraction of the sunshine that had been warming James’ skin while they played chess. James lies down on the blanket. He stares at the clouds and pretends like he sees hearts and stars and snakes and thousands of other shapes that any divination textbook would interpret as his future including _passionate love_ and _potent happiness_ and a million different scenarios which James already knows to be true, because he’s living them all concurrently at this moment in time.

Scorpius comes back, sits down on the blanket. He brings with him two glasses of water and the burning drops of sunshine that he carries in his eyes everywhere he goes. His knees press against James’ leg, his fingers roll over the belt loops on his shorts. In their touch lies thousands and thousands of ways to say _I love you_ without ever uttering a word.

James feels warm again. He feels known. He feels _loved_.

And he knows Scorpius feels it all, too. Even though he doesn’t say it, though he doesn’t say a single word. Because he’s looking at James as if he’s seeing him for the first time, like he’s catching a glare of the sun through the broken clouds of a once rampant thunderstorm, and that look says it all.

James touches Scorpius’ cheek, and, then, just like that, it’s only him, his lover, and the rest of the world at their fingertips. Forever and a day on the horizon, a promise of peace and love and enchanting _always_ as long as they stay like this, at each other’s sides, through everything the world could ever throw at them.

“I love you too, by the way,” Scorpius says. “I forgot to say it back before I left.”

James smiles, because there’s no other expression he could wear when looking at this _boy_. “I know.” He says, but that isn’t what he’s saying at all, really. He’s saying something much more complex, much more intense. Scorpius smiles, too, because he knows as well.

It’s sunny, and they rest, and they _know_. Just as the world intended, just as the heavens demanded, just as the two of them have always dreamed, and will continue to dream, for the rest of their lives and then some. 

**Author's Note:**

> tumblr: dustyspines


End file.
